


The Hart and Heart

by crossingwinter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (also just pretend he doesn't know who argella is ok? don't think too hard about the setup), (think about the porn), Aegon is Blackfyre Aegon not Targaryen Aegon, F/M, PWP, it’s for the pr0nz, please don’t think too hard about the setup for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:37:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2374853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deposed—the word makes her blood run cold.  Yes, he is deposed, and if she were truly Robert’s heir, as the people call her—a <em>true</em> Baratheon, she would have had him killed, had him burned, had his body feed the crows, his head on a spike, tarred and boiled beyond recognition for all the city to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hart and Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iheartdramas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iheartdramas/gifts), [madaboutasoiaf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madaboutasoiaf/gifts).



> From [iheartdrama's](http://iheartdramas.tumblr.com) fic prompt:
> 
> Fic I Wish You Would Write: Shireen x Aegon Blackfyre but as Orys x Argella 2.0 with Aegon being the one brought naked and in chains to The Storm Queen.

There is a bruise on his chin and a streak of dried blood trailing from the corner of his lip as he stands there.  His hands are manacled behind his back, and he is naked as the day he was born.  He is a fine looking man—slim and tall with skin paler than her own. His muscles do not bulge as her blacksmith cousin’s do—they are wiry, but in their wiriness, they look strong.  His muscles seem to ripple their way down to his bared cock, which hangs limply and unguarded between his legs. His hair is so blonde it is almost white and his eyes are a deep purple, an angry purple.  His jaw juts out and he stares at her, as though daring her to look at him, to see the anger, the rage, the humiliation. She wonders how many men he’d had to fight off when they’d put him in his manacles and put chains around his ankles.

Shireen stands and descends from her throne— _her throne_. The words almost feel magical in her mind. How long had she fought for it? How many men had been sent to R’hllor’s fires for it?  And here she stands, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms with her deposed cousin at her feet.

Deposed—the word makes her blood run cold.  Yes, he is deposed, and if she were truly Robert’s heir, as the people call her—a _true_ Baratheon, she would have had him killed, had him burned, had his body feed the crows, his head on a spike, tarred and boiled beyond recognition for all the city to see. 

“Cousin,” she says calmly when she is nearly halfway down the steps.

He does not reply—he merely glares at her, and in that glare she sees disgust as well. She’s used to that though—most men do their best to hide their repulsion at her childhood scars from her. She supposes that in his detestation, he can’t care.

Ser Justin—Lord Justin, she supposes she must remember to call him—raises a fist and strikes him, and he loses balance and falls to the floor. 

“My Lord, that was unnecessary,” she says, her voice ringing loudly through the chamber. She feels everyone’s eyes one her, and she knows that it sounds low, stern, like her father’s, like a queen’s. She’s reaches the floor and unclasps her cloak and swings it from her shoulders.  It is a long one—golden one with alternating black stags and flaming hearts—“the hart and heart” she’s heard her sigil called. She likes it, though she herself could never call it that.  It is a longer cloak than she should need—taller than her, but it had been made for her father once, and she likes the symbolism of it all.  She kneels down in front of her cousin, and for some reason, her heart is hammering in her throat.  She should not be nervous—she has nothing to fear from him, or from those watching, but still, this gesture, this moment—it matters. But her hands do not tremble as she swings the cloak around him and rests it on his shoulders.

His eyes, which had been on the ground in front of her, flicker up to hers and he sees confusion there. So he doesn’t know the story. She will tell him later. She extends a hand to his elbow and guides him to his feet.  The cloak is tall enough for him and falls neatly around him, hiding his nakedness completely.  The yellow does nothing for him, though, and makes him look sickly.  She’ll have to keep him garbed in black when he must wear her colors then.  She will have to remember that. 

“Aegon Blackfyre,” her words ring loudly through the hall again, and she sees his lips twist in frustration.  “Do you agree to be my consort, to take my name and father my children that this realm my know peace at long last?”

It takes him a moment to do so, but he bows as best he can, sweeping the cloak forward. “Your Grace,” he says and there is a bite to his voice.

And so they are wed in the sept of the Red Keep.  It is a small affair, for Queen Shireen knows that the smallfolk might take the meaning of the ceremony amiss if they saw their former king wed to their queen—even if he did so naked and in chains.  She has already cloaked him, and she is grateful that Septon Ernst has the good sense to acknowledge that she should not be cloaked by him. She has won her throne. She needs no protection.

His cuffs come off once they are wed, and he leaves her side for a span of minutes to put on a set of trousers and a light linen shirt before he joins her for their dinner. It is, Shireen does her best not to notice, a subdued affair, and Aegon drinks heavily from his wine cup—so heavily that Shireen tells the squire to stop serving when Aegon’s words begin to slur. 

“Don’t want me drunk for it, do you?” he says to her, his purple eyes clouded and his lids drooping. His cheeks are red and his lips are wet and what expression is not dulled by drink is as close to a leer as Shireen can imagine.  “Want it to be like whatever your mother told you it would be like?  Beautiful and perfect and loving, then?”

“My mother always told me that the marriage bed is little more than duty, husband.” she pauses before the last word.  He seems to think about what she has said for a moment and she sees his brows coming together in a frown. 

“No beauty and perfection and love then?” he asks.

“Hardly,” she says. She raises her own wine to her lips.  “Function. Necessity.”  She does her best not to think of his cock as she’d seen it in the throne room, limp and long between his legs, but gods she wonders what it would be like when it’s…she’s seen dogs and horses rutting in the yards—she knows the difference in looks.  But she’d never seen a man’s…she blushes and hopes he will not notice.

But of course he does. “A maiden’s blush for me?” he asks, and she wonders if he means to sound as harsh as he does.  Probably.  There are stories of how good and kind he was, and how he treated the commons well, and loved the wife Daenerys had put to the flames.  But she supposes she is his captor, even while they are wed.  It makes her smile sadly.  “And a sad smile on a wedding day.  Am I so abhorrent to you?”

She looks at him evenly and takes a sip of wine, putting it on the table between before her. “It is a woman’s lot in life,” she says, “to marry a man she may not know, she may not love, and live her days in his halls so long as she lives and breathes.  Perhaps they will come to love one another. Perhaps they will not. But love is hardly the purpose of the match.  And here we sit—you and I—and it is much the same, and yet very different.”

“I am the woman, and you the man.”  He smiles at her and leans back in his chair, though his body sways as he does.   “Tell me, do women drink on their wedding night to make it any easier?”

Her heart breaks for him in that moment.  It breaks for so many people, in truth—her mother, her grandmother, how many nameless women dragged to a wedding bed against their will.  “I do not know,” she says quietly.  She moves her wine goblet towards him and he shakes his head.

“My queen would have me sober in her bed.  I shall be, then.” He reaches over and rips a piece of bread away from the loaf and shoves it into his mouth, never once breaking eye contact.

“Your first wife,” Shireen asks, watching him chew, “the Princess Arianne—did she—was she—?”

“Was she willing in my bed?”

“Yes.”

“Willing enough,” he says. He frowns, and looks away from Shireen, his eyes clouded.  “She was older than I was, and no maiden, to be sure, and I loved her as best I could. And when we were wed, she taught me what joy truly was, for an hour, for an evening—it doesn’t matter.”

He takes a bite of another piece of bread, chewing slowly.  “And have you never loved another, my lady?”

It is a forward question, and Shireen feels her eyes widen at him, but he is either drunk enough not to care, or too drunk to notice as he chewed on her bread.

“I have not,” she says, doing her best to replicate her mother’s stoniest tone of voice. “Nor do I—”

“You take offense to the question? Or the sentiment?” he asks, and for a moment she wonders if he truly is drunk for his violet eyes are so clear suddenly and she sees something akin to defiance there. “Why do you ask, and yet I may not—my queen,” he adds almost as an afterthought, and Shireen feels herself blushing.

“What do you know of my life?” she asks quietly.  “What do you know of those whom I have loved, and those whom I have sacrificed for?” She thought of Devan—an icy blade through his throat, and Rickon glaring at her through tears as she had ridden south for her throne.  She thought of her father whose body she had never seen, and her mother who had died protecting her from Patchface, and even Lord Snow who had fought on behalf of them all and who stood now—a frozen sentinel looking north. “What do you know of loss?”

He takes another bite of bread, and says slowly, “I lost everything before I was even born. I am lost now.”

She stares at him, her heart aching in her chest as she watches.  They had all lost something, hadn’t they?  Not just her, and not just him—everyone. Some had lost fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, honor and freedom and lords and kings and nothing was just as simple as the two of them sitting together over dinner, wondering if they could enjoy one another.

“How can you lose what you never had?” she asks him quietly.  “You never had a mother, or a father—you had a kingdom, which I have taken from you, but you never…”

“I lost the expectations that one day, this would be my destiny,” he says glumly.  “This—” he gestures vaguely at the room and opens his mouth to keep speaking, but he can’t because Lord Justin has just stood up.

“If His Grace King Stannis were alive,” he says, and he is swaying too, and gods—is Shireen the only one who isn’t fully drunk?  “It would be his duty to send these two to bed.  However, he left Her Grace in my charge for too long, and thus it is for me to say—to bed with you, Your Grace!”

And they are descending upon them, and Shireen feels hands at her arms, dragging her to her feet. She had hoped that they would be gentle with their queen—respectful, and deferential, but there is nothing remotely deferential in the way that the knights and lords of her court tug her dress away, ripping laces and silk and velvet and lifting her up high, making comments about how she doesn’t have the famed Baratheon brawn, even if she is truly of the blood. 

She is completely naked when they thrust her into her bedchamber, and a moment later, Aegon is brought in after her, naked once again and shoved next to her on the bed. Then, cackling and joking and looking thoroughly pleased with themselves, the courtiers depart and she is left alone with Aegon.  She is struck, once again, by how handsome he is—the fine line of his cheekbones, the straightness of his nose.  And now, he is looking at her, and she is naked too, and he is battered and she is scarred and there is something about his expression that makes her stomach flutter and her eyes fall down to the bed between them.

It is only then that she truly sees his wrists.  They had been hidden by the sleeves of his shirt during dinner, but she sees now that they are chafed and red from his manacles.  Shireen reaches for his hands and examines them.

“How many of them did it take to put you in those chains?” she asks, running her thumbs along his raw flesh. 

He inhales sharply, but does not pull away, and she peeks up at him.  “Three,” he says.  And only then does he loose one of his hands from hers to rub his jaw. “Three, and it wasn’t…wasn’t a fair fight.”

She releases his hand and gets up, crossing to a little table in the corner of the room where she finds a jug of water.  She is proud of herself—she walks tall, confidently, like a queen, though she knows his eyes trail after her, are undoubtedly fixed upon her rear the way that Lord Justin’s fix on the rears of other women.  But she does not tremble, she does not blush.  If anything, she barely notices.  There’s something oddly comfortable about their nakedness, and she wonders if it that is normal. 

She takes up the pitcher, finds a piece of clean linen from her bedstand, and pours some of the water onto it.  Then she returns to the bed, climbing across it to sit next to him.

“Do you know the story of Argella Durrandon?” she asks him, squeezing some of the water from the linen and then rubbing it over his skin.  He closes his eyes, and she the muscles in his cheeks begin to relax.  He has a handsome face, and she wishes that his jaw were not bruised.  The bruise is a different purple from his eyes—darker, more sinister. Though she supposes that this is the nature of this particular wedding.

“I do not, my lady,” he replies, and she continues to rub his wrists with her cloth. 

“Argella Durrandon was the last Storm Queen,” she says gently.  “The only daughter of Argilac the Arrogant.  And when Aegon and his dragons took Westeros, he sent his half-brother Orys to take the Stormlands and marry Argella.”

“She is your matriarch, then,” he says.

“Argella refused to wed him, and was subdued by her lords—men she’d known her whole life—and presented to Orys Baratheon naked and in chains.”

Only then do Aegon’s eyes open.  “Ah,” he says. “I see now the significance of the evening.”  His tone is mild, but she sees a sharpness to his expression, and she continues.

“Orys showed her kindness, though.  When she was given to him, he had the chains removed.  He gave her his own cloak to cover her.  He tended her wounds.”

“My lady fancies herself Orys born again, then?” Aegon says lightly.  He is teasing her, and she looks up at him and sees a softness to his face she had not expected.

“Or Argella. I know not,” she says quietly.

He reaches up and runs a thumb along her face, and she feels calluses on his hands, though his touch is gentle. 

“And I suppose I am as much a pawn as Orys,” he sighs and looks away from her.  “And a bastard too, for all I know.”

And it is Shireen’s turn to reach up and run her fingers along his face, to draw his gaze back to hers.  “You are what you make yourself,” she says.  “And you are more than others say you are—that much at least is evident.”

He raises an eyebrow and his lips quirk into a half-smile.  “Is that so?  And what do they say I am?”

And despite herself, she felt herself blushing and looking down and—oh no, looking down was perhaps not the best idea, because her eyes came to rest between his legs and—oh.

She hears him laugh quietly, and she turns her face away, letting her eyes fall on the little table that had once held the pitcher of water.  He is sitting so close to her, and she can feel the heat of him even though they are barely touching, as though his presence fills the entire room with as much warmth as a fully stoked fire.  She breathes slowly, steadily, trying to calm her heart which had, at some point, begun beating quickly in her chest.

“Shireen,” he whispers, and there’s something sincere in his voice and despite herself, she turns to look at him.  “Are you scared of me?”

Her head shakes without her even having time to process the question.  Why would he ask that?  What did she have to be afraid of?  He was… “Why are you asking?” she breathes.

“I—” he takes a deep breath and looks down at her hands.  He twists his wrists and winces.

Shireen scoots away from him, crossing the room again to a cabinet where she finds the skin salve that she has rubbed on her grayscale scars since she was a child. As she returns to the bed, she sees him staring at her, his eyes going from her face to her breasts to her—she refuses to blush, she _refuses_. Why should she? He was her husband now, they’d sworn it before gods and men, and she had stared at him, gods know. If anything, she likes that he is watching, that he licks his lips without seeming to notice that he’s doing it because they have gone dry. 

She settles next to him on the bed again, and opens the jar, dipping her fingers into the ointment, feeling a familiar chill crawl across them before rubbing the balm along his wrists.

“It’s cooling,” he sighs, almost in surprise.

“Mmm,” Shireen hums. “That’s at least what the Grand Maester told me when I was young.  He said that if ever I felt the cooling, I would know that my face was…well…normal again.”  She smiles sadly.

“When were you ill?” he asks, reaching up and touching the scars on her face.  She can’t feel his fingers and wishes that he would touch her other cheek instead. 

“When I was a very small child,” she replies.  “I can’t remember what it was like before, anymore.”  She reaches up and takes his hand again, rubbing more ointment on is skin.  And suddenly, he leans forward and it takes her a moment to realize that he’s kissing her cheek, right on her scars. 

“Oh.”  She doesn’t say it, she doesn’t whisper or breath it—it’s more a quiet expulsion of air, of surprise, and he lifts his fingers up and runs them along her chin, turning her face so that he’s—

His lips are soft, and warm, and he tastes of wine.  And when he opens his lips slightly, his tongue poking into her mouth, it feels so bizarre that if she weren’t breathless, she’s sure that she would laugh. Bizarre—wet and almost…almost…she can’t describe it but it feels good, and as he kisses her she breathes him in, twisting shut the balm in her hands and letting it fall to the bed beside her so that she can reach up and hold his face between her hands.

He starts at her touch, then laughs, resting his forehead against hers.  “Your hands are cold,” he whispers.

“Warm them up, then,” someone who sounds far more confident than Shireen feels says, and his lips are on hers again, one of his hands weaving up through the many braids in her hair, easing them loose as he massages her scalp, while the other comes to rest at her hip, holding her firmly in place as he eases his chest closer to hers and she feels the press of it against her breasts.

She runs her hands along his sides feeling him shiver under her touch and he laughs into her mouth this time, and it’s as though his laughter goes right to her heart, right to her groin.  His fingers tighten in her hair, holding her head firmly as his lips depart hers and make their way down to her neck, his back curving in so that his chest pulls away from hers and she traces her hands up the center of his stomach.

“Your hands really are cold,” he says into her neck.

“Should I stop?” she asks, letting them fall to her thighs and letting the warmth of his lips on her throat fill her, flow through her, and oh—she doesn’t _want_ to stop touching him—not now that she’s started.

He doesn’t respond, and a moment later, he’s guiding her so that she’s lying flat on her back, twisting her legs so that they aren’t curled at an odd angle beneath her. He takes her hands and slips them under her back.  “When you can’t feel how cold they are,” he murmurs, his face inches from hers, his violet eyes twinkling, “then you can take them out again.”

“I don’t feel the cold,” she lies, of only to watch him arch his eyebrows.  “I feel perfectly warm.

“Really?” his voice is dry, sardonic, and she gasps as he trails fingers up her stomach, between her breasts to her throat, to her lips, tracing little circles over them.

“Truly,” she replies breathlessly.

“Do you feel no cold?” he asks her.  His other hand is now matching the circles he’s drawing on her lips but on the skin between her breasts and she feels gooseprickles break out across her skin.

“No,” she says defiantly. “I am immune to the cold of the cream at this point.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Everywhere?”

“I—yes—what?” His hands are gone, and she props herself up on her elbows and sees him unscrewing the top of her salve. “What are you—?”

But he cuts her off with a kiss, and scoops up a fingerful of the balm.  “So this isn’t cold then?” he asks, and he presses it against the flesh of her nipple.  She hisses, and feels it pebbling beneath his touch and _gods_ that’s _cold_ , but,

“No.  Not really,” she lies.  He kisses her again.

“And not this one either?” and cold engulfs her other nipple and she squeaks this time and he chuckles.

“A little,” she lies. “But not—” she hears more than sees him closing his jar, and feels more than hears it dropping to the bed beside her, “not debilitating so.”  Oh it’s a lie, she is _freezing_ and only in her nipples.  Her hands, which had been chilly now feel like they are on fire in comparison and when he reaches out to cup her breasts, his hands are far colder than they had been before, but they feel so good, so much warmer than everything else seems right now and—

“I think you are a liar, Shireen Baratheon,” he murmurs and he presses another kiss to her lips, his tongue slipping between her lips and curling around hers, stroking it and she moans into his mouth because if she could drink in the heat of his tongue and send it through her body again, she _would_.

“I am not a liar,” she says.  “It is not debilitating.”

“Is that so?” He pinches one of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger and she feels a noise rising from her stomach, from her throat without her intention. 

“I—”

And suddenly everything is on fire, his mouth is on her breast, his tongue circling lazily around her nipple and she’s crying out because surely this is heaven and hell all at once, isn’t it?  The feeling of fire and ice battling on her chest as Aegon sucks her nipple into his mouth, nips at it with his tongue, and sucks, and sucks, and sucks and—

“Are your hands warm now?” he laughs, and she blushes.  Her own hand is curling around her other nipple, matching the movement of his mouth as best she can—even though it is not the same, not as warm. He reaches over and takes her hand.  “Yes, that’s warm enough I think,” he grins and he drops his lips to her other breast and both her hands fly to his hair, weaving through his silvery curls and clutching him to her because it’s like his mouth makes her blood burn. 

Too soon, all too soon, he kisses his way up to the top of her breast, then along her collarbone, up her throat and across her cheek, finding her lips again, and she lets her hands slip from his hair, skating over the lines of his chest, pressing into the disks of his nipples—he smiles into her lips as she does, and she pinches them—before letting her fingers wander, bolder and bolder, down, down until they are parting wiry curls and wrapping around him and—

He groans into her lips and his head seems to fall away as she slides her fingers along it, not sure in the slightest of what she’s doing, but that hardly seems to matter because his forehead is resting against the pillow and he’s breathing hard and his hands have dropped between her legs and, “Oh.”

Oh, because she’s only just noticed how slick her sex is, noticed how hot her flesh is against his cool fingers, how good—strange, but good—it feels to have him touching her, tracing those same circles he’d traced on her lips over a swollen nub of flesh at the top of her sex.

She feels her legs part so that he can touch her more easily, feels his fingers continue their circling, feels her own stomach begin to clench, feels his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps as she continues to run her hands along him.

His hands are gone suddenly, pulling hers from his cock and he lifts himself up, his face hardly a breath away from hers as he seems to fumble for a moment.  She feels it—him—his cock between her legs, pressing into her, slowly, steadily and it stings slightly as she stretches around him, pulling him into her.  It seems to take forever, as though his cock is longer than a sword, but when he stops moving, when he’s sheathed fully inside her, he reaches up and runs his fingers through her hair again, drawing her lips to his as he begins to rock slowly back and forth inside her. 

And slowly, she grows used to it—slowly she relaxes, lets her hands come to rest on his rear, clutch at him, massage him as he moans above her.  Slowly, the slickness of her sex, the heat of her skin seems to overpower the stinging inside her, washing it away as Aegon pumps harder above her, and she widens her legs, cants her hips up and finds that as he thrusts, if she arches her back slightly his hips press against that swollen nub that had felt so good when he’d been rubbing circles into her. And when she arches her back, her nipples press against his chest and they are still cold, but the beating of his heart over hers seems to warm them, and the hot and the cold, the rhythm of his movements, the sound of his gasping for air and the little groans he makes at the back of his throat, the little moans she makes as she pushes her hips back against his, trying to take him in deeper and deeper, because if she takes him in deeper and deeper, maybe he’ll reach that spot that she _knows_ is there, the one that will make everything in the world—or maybe just everything in her body, everything in her mind, come apart inside her. 

And suddenly he’s groaning louder than before, and he’s trembling in her arms and shooting warm spurts of seed inside her, filling her as he presses himself into her as deep as he’ll go.  She unwraps her legs from his hips, using her feet to push her hips up against his, to rub herself against him, to feel that little nub finding a bone to press against and there’s fire spreading through her now, not just his heat but her own as her heart throbs so quickly she swears it could burst and her fingers clutch at the skin of his back as she gasps, chokes, cries out, and collapses beneath him.

They lie like that for a time, their hearts beating against the other’s ribs.  Aegon trails his fingers along her arms, and she smiles, twists her head and kisses his neck, sucking on his pulse.

“My lady, you may have won my heart,” he says at last, lifting himself up.  She feels him sliding his cock from between her legs, and feels almost empty.  She reaches up and cups his cheek in her hands, and he smiles.  “Your hands are warm, now.”

“I thank you for that, my lord,” she says.  “Now kiss me.”

“At once, Your Grace.”


End file.
